


Exaltation Of The Morning Rose

by Zayrastriel



Series: The Exaltation Chronicles [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, M/M, Mentions of incest, complicated system of magic, prince!Blaine, prince!Kurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-26 01:28:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Blaine's being shipped off like a sack of grain to marry Prince Kurt by an ambivalent sociopath of a brother-King.<br/>Or at least, that's what it seems like.<br/>Reality tends to be slightly more complicated than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Massive novel-esque Klaine fantasy AU.  
> Being transferred with severe editing from my FF.net account (account of the same name, fic of the same name) so feel free to read it over there with the understanding that the writing is...err. Interesting?

"Prince Blaine, we're almost there."

Blaine looks around him, at the barren plains layered in more snow than he's ever wanted to see in his life, and despite all the vows he had made with himself to  _accept_ his fate with dignity, he can't help the explosive sigh that leaves his lips.

"Gods," he mutters under his breath, "why me?"

"Your Highness?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing." But the panic's rising within him, curling like a fire-snake in Blaine's stomach, threatening to engulf him from within. For a moment he wishes it would, because  _oh Gods_ then he could see Father again, and he wouldn't be here, an annoyance to an older,  _heterosexual_ brother, peddled away as easily as a handful of grain.

Andrielle stumbles suddenly, her hoof grating unpleasantly against a stone. Blaine, clutching clumsily to handfuls of reins and midnight-black mane, winces as the jolt stings against saddle-sores, both old and new. He's always enjoyed riding, from when he was a child, and reckoned himself to be more than passable on horseback; but by the end of the three weeks it had taken to reach the southern border of the Sun Kingdoms, Blaine would have been happy to never see a horse again in his life.

It was then, at the end of those three weeks, that Santana told him with a laugh in her eyes that it would be another two and a half before they reached even the outskirts of Lima, capital city of his new homeland.

Blaine sprained his toe kicking a tree, had to endure the careful not-smiles on the faces of soldiers he’s known since he was old enough to pick up a sword. Had, rather childishly, even for him, jammed his fingers into his ears to block out Santana’s careless laughter.

Despite himself, he smiles at the memory.  David would have laughed, he thinks, fond smile playing at his mouth, and Wes…

His brain, slow and sluggish in the damp cold, catches up with his thoughts and Blaine feels his smile vanish, good humour dissipated in an instant.

_Fucking Wes. Fucking David._

Blaine wants to kick something again, or scream; anything to somehow halt the tide of petulant rage welling up inside of him. The only option available at the moment is Andrielle, though, and Andrielle's got a temper to rival his when the need arises, which Blaine discovered the first and only time he tried to take a whip to her. If only Wes and David were here, though…

It's not that Blaine doesn't care for them; they're his brothers, or near enough, after all. (More his brothers than  _Gabriel_ , in any case.) Blaine's almost positive that Wes's ceremonial gavel is carved from wood of the old tree, fallen in a heat storm two summers ago, that they used to play in.  And David – Blaine automatically raises a hand to lightly touch the nape of his neck, feel phantom pain lick across the skin from the memory of gritting his teeth as the buzz of the tattoo artist’s needle sang out in weird harmony with David’s terrified screams.

They’ve got too much between them for Blaine to just let go, he knows.

But his best friends, and he's probably never going to see them again.

And so Blaine can't stop hating them for it.

 

~

 

"Hey, Dad."

A particularly strong gust of wind almost threatens to ruffle Kurt's hair. He takes that as incentive, from some father-like spirit that may or may not be lingering in the mortal realm (Kurt’s an atheist, but spirits are a proven thing), to continue.

" _He's_ almost here, you know. Yeah,  _him_." Kurt bites his lip. "I wish you hadn't done it, you know. Done all that without telling me. And leaving me the throne. Not that it isn't a nice throne," he hastens to add. "But there was always Finn…"

He frowns, raising an eyebrow. "Though I have to admit, I don't think the country's ready for the reign of Rachel. And Finn. Technically Finn and Rachel, but I don't think I could find anyone who doesn't know who the  _real_ ruler would be. Between you and me, I think the Western Plains breathed a collective sigh of relief when she demanded to be married off to Finn. Quinn will make a pretty good Queen, I think, and Rachel's actually happy, because she's always going to be the centre of at least  _someone's_ world now."

Kurt, turning, drops to his knees, facing the towering statue. He rocks back till he's sitting on the ground, hard and cold, for once, unconcerned about the silk that'll probably be unusable after the damage the snow will probably do to it.

For a long moment he's silent, and then all the words rush out of his mouth, all at once –

"What if he doesn't like me?" Kurt demands, and he can hear his pitch climbing but he doesn't care right now. "What if we never get along? I know he's beautiful, I've seen the pictures, but what if he hates it here, what if he hates me? What if he's not actually gay and that bastard Gabriel just told me that and made him go along with it to get the alliance? What if…"

Tears well up in his eyes but he blinks rapidly till they go away, unwilling to acknowledge their presence with his hand. "What if…" His words are slower, his voice an almost-whisper. "What if I'm never as happy as you and Mum? You and Carol? Or Rachel and Finn? Even Quinn and Puck. I wouldn't mind if he were a douche – Puck's got that covered, and Quinn's happier than she ever was with Finn. I just…" Kurt's voice catches, and he has to swallow heavily before he can get the rest of the phrase out. "I just want to be happy," he finishes lamely, and he's painfully aware of how naïve and immature he sounds.

All the words have dried up now, like his tears, but Kurt can't bring himself to stand and walk away. So he sits, the dampness of his pants quickly turning into outright-wetness, till he hears an familiar, annoying and yet not unwelcome voice calling his name.

"… _Kurt? Kuuuurt! I know you're here, Kurt!_ "

The atmosphere shatters, Rachel's voice carrying over what looks, as Kurt stands and turns, brushing snow off him, to be far too long a distance for anyone's voice to travel.

 _But then_ , Kurt thinks in reluctant admiration,  _Rachel isn't everyone_.

"Oh,  _there_ you are!"

And there she is, standing at the heavy, ornate graveyard gates, as ridiculously-garbed as always. Kurt never thought  _anyone_  could mis-wear the traditional southern robes, till he met Rachel for the first time. He thinks of it as a curious manifestation of magic's law of equivalence; for an angel's voice she's traded any sense she might ever have had of the aesthetic.

"What is it, Rachel?"

"He's here, he's here, he's here!" she exclaims, practically jumping up and down in excitement. Kurt still hasn't quite figured out why the arrival of this foreign prince inspires so much enthusiasm, but he can understand it.

Right now, though, any potential enthusiasm is shadowed by a nervous fear that twists in his stomach like a knot, as all his doubts come back in a rush.

"Already?" he demands, and that knot's not so much a knot now as some sort of growing parasite-fungus-mutant thing that's sending shivers down his limbs and causing his heart to beat much faster than it should.

"Weeell…" she hesitates. "Not really. But sort of. Brittany says she can see him in her near-sight, which means he'll probably be here soon. But you have to get ready!" She skips ahead of Kurt, somehow managing to stop her feet from sinking into the snow in a way that even Kurt, for all the years he has spent here as opposed to her one year marriage to Finn, has never quite been able to replicate.

She spins around suddenly to face him, brow creasing.

"Hey, Kurt," Rachel frowns, looking him up and down, "why are you so wet?"

Kurt rolls his eyes, starting to walk back towards the castle through the thick snow. "What do you think, Rachel?" he snaps, though he regrets it a second later.  He should be used to dealing with Rachel by now – he is, really.  But seriously, after that near-panic attack he’s sort of on edge.

He senses rather than sees her eyes soften, her step become more subdued than is normal, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her hand flick upwards as she hums something under her breath.

Warmth embraces him, not oppressively but comfortingly, and the moisture drains from his clothing as dry heat seeps into his muscles, soothing and relaxing.

 If it were anyone else, he would thank them.  But this is Rachel, and so instead he says " _Music of the Night_? I didn't know murdering sociopaths appealed to you so much," raising an eyebrow as she grins.

 

~

 

_This memory is more than familiar to Blaine – familiar enough to make him aware that he's dreaming, and dear enough that he doesn't care. He dreams of dark green foliage, of forests and the sparkling water of the Iyara falls that tower above a calm river that's so clear he can see the fish moving languorously, lazily._

_Unable to resist, he leaps into the water, feeling it wash over his head. He emerges with a loud gasp to the sound of rich, warm laughter._

_His father kneels by the water's edge and Blaine swims slowly towards him, leaning his elbows on the grass as his toes barely graze the riverbed. He smiles hugely at his father till a hand ruffles long, wet curls that almost reach to his shoulder; he scowls, but the older man simply smiles in turn, the slight curve of his lips saying just as much as Blaine's grin did._

" _You're mean," Blaine says, pouting at his father as he pulls himself from the water to sit beside him, feet trailing in the slight current._

" _Yes," James agrees with a chuckle. "But it's hardly my fault that you're so fun to tease, my boy."_

_Blaine doesn't say anything; just leans his head against his father's shoulder. The older man doesn't say anything, though Blaine's almost sure he's making a mess of the material._

" _Hey, dad…"_

_He feels James' head turn towards him, feels the arm wrap around his bare wet torso. "Yes, Blaine?"_

" _You love me, right?"_

_The arm stiffens, and Blaine's surprised by his father grabbing his chin, forcing him to look straight into large, hazel eyes, so like his own. "Of course," James whispers._

_Blaine bites his lip. "No matter what?"_

_His father sighs. "Is this about what happened earlier, Blaine? About what Gabriel said?"_

_Blaine nods, lip trembling and eyes downcast._

_He feels arms wrap around him, and he buries his face in his father's shirt, trying desperately not to let the tears fall._

" _No matter what, Blaine," James whispers into his ear. "No matter what."_

_Blaine. Blaine. Blaine…For some reason that word seems to echo, the voice changing slightly each time._

_Blaine._

_Odd. It sounds like a girl's voice – no, a woman._

Blaine.

_A strangely familiar woman._

" _Blaine. Hey, Blaine. Blaaaaine!"_

"Blaine!"

Blaine groans, lifting his head with an effort. "Go away, Santana. I'm trying to  _sleep_ ," he grumbles automatically before he realises that a) he's still on horseback, b) Andrielle – scratch that,  _none_ – of the horses are moving, and c) everyone that Wes and David have managed to bribe to 'escort' him down south is staring at him, expressions ranging from amusement to condescension. Santana, who was obviously shaking him from where she sat on her own palomino, looks like she's about to start laughing.

He sits up quickly, embarrassment sending blood rushing straight to his cheeks.

"Um," he says intelligently, before giving up and burying his face in his hands.

"Eloquent," Santana drawls, and he can just feel her rolling her eyes. Ignoring her, Blaine nudges Andrielle into a canter, and after a few moments he hears the others do the same.

"Hey hobbit, wait up!" Blaine hears Santana call from behind him, but he doesn't bother to slow down. Sure enough she catches up with him, turning in her saddle to face him even as their horses move into a gallop. Part of Blaine wishes she'd fall, if only so that he'd have the chance to bruise her ego once compared to the million times she does it to him. The other, more sensible half, knows that she's literally magic with horses and that there's more chance of the two of them having sex than of her ever falling.

"You should have seen your face," she snickers, "and do you realise you were  _drooling_? I bet you were dreaming about whatever you gay guys do when you get it on."

Blaine doesn't respond, concentrating on the feeling of the wind in his hair, the pleasure of speed (and trying to ignore the alternately dull and sharp aching of his ass and lower back.)

"You  _were_ , weren't you?" Santana demands, triumph in her voice. "I bet you were dreaming about Burt, or Kirk, or whatever that Hummel kid's name is! Don't get your hopes up, hobbit, from what I've heard he's-"

He tugs sharply on Andrielle's reins, and she slows to a standstill almost instantaneously; too fast for even Santana, magic or not. He laughs loudly as her horse, racing past him, stumbles and she's almost hurled off the front of the saddle, only her ridiculous amount of control saving her from an appropriately embarrassing fall.

"What do you want, Santana?" Blaine asks mildly, riding leisurely to where she's stopped, trying to get her breath back. Santana scowls at him, but he keeps his expression void of anything other than a serene smile till she eventually tires of it and turns in the saddle to reach at something behind her.

"Here," she says shortly, and she thrusts something into Blaine's arms.

He blinks twice, looking down at the pot. The pot is obviously northern; sun-baked, a rich red-brown. It's three-quarters-filled with dark soil. And there's a tree in it.

"It's a tree."

"Observant."

Blaine blinks again.

"A sapling," he corrects himself.

"Are you always this smart? Or is this just a one-off thing?"

One more blink. "An orange sapling."

"Can I hit you?"

He's not understanding. "It's one of  _your_ orange tre-"

"I'm going to hit you."

"I don't understan-"

"Finally. I knew this intelligence thing couldn't last long."

"But-"

"Just  _shut up_."

"…Okay."

There’s something in this; something more than _oh, I grow magical orange trees and normally if anyone comes within ten feet of them I throw fire at them till they die but you’re being married off so here’s your consolation prize._

That’s what Blaine puzzles over as they ride in silence, till finally (finally) they're at the outskirts of high, thick steel gates. Santana rides forwards and, in typical Santana fashion, announces who they are and where they're from. After a suitably long period of bowing and etc. etc. they're met by a Lord William of House Schuester who's apparently been sent to escort them to the castle.

The word 'escort' is sounding more and more like 'prison guard' to Blaine, but he smiles when appropriate, tries to remember what David taught him about southern customs, and follows obediently, Santana by his side.

"Hey, Santana," Blaine says when as they ride as the castle looms ahead of them, as menacingly ominous as he'd always thought it would be.

"…What."

"Thanks."

"Fuck off."


	2. Chapter 2

_Kurt’s mother’s eyes were like his are (a sort of blue-green-silver amalgamation of all common eye colours in the south.) She had slender, soft hands, a clear, bell-like voice, and her smile was the most beautiful thing on the planet._

_And the only person who loved her more than Kurt did was Kurt's father._

_Her eyes, her hands, her voice, and her smile; that's what stays with Kurt, ten years after the morning when she opened a small gold box, a present for Kurt's seventh birthday from some foreign dignitary, and inhaled fire-snake venom straight into her lungs._

_Kurt doesn't visit her grave like he visits his father's, but only because there wasn't enough of her to bury._

Finn's standing by himself when Kurt, hair still damp from his bath, makes his way out into the main courtyard. A light layer of snow covers the ground, the remnants of a surprisingly nice morning, unusually warm for the middle of winter. There’s even a hint of sunlight, peeking grudgingly out from behind the silvery clouds that normally loom dark grey and foreboding.

“Finn,” Kurt calls out in greeting.

It's a nice day, and so despite himself, he smiles when Finn turns around, almost falling over his own feet. "You seem excited," he comments lightly, voice lacking the usual bite that Finn's clumsiness always inspires within him.

"Well, yeah!" Finn exclaims. "Aren't you?"

Kurt shrugs, because  _yes_ he would be nervous – if he was letting himself think about it. Which he's not, because then he'd be nervous.

 _Oh, great_.

There's a silence, and Finn starts fiddling with his shirt; already rumpling, though Kurt knows for a fact that Rachel only forced it onto him less than an hour ago. "Oh, in the name of the bloody Goddess…" Kurt mutters, reaching up flatten Finn's collar instinctively before he realises what he's doing.

His hands freeze in the action as he remembers with a start what happened the last time he did something like this, and he releases the collar, stepping backwards.

But Finn just runs a hand through his hair sheepishly, re-ruffling already-ruined hair with an embarrassed chuckle.

"Sorry Kurt, I…" Finn trails off. "Hey, why did you stop?" he demands, looking too much like a kicked puppy for Kurt to face. He lowers his eyes.

"You know," he mutters, because Finn’s not stupid.  He’s got to know.

Sure enough, when he looks up it’s to see Finn's eyes widen, first in disbelief and then hurt. "What? What, no. No, Kurt, you're my little brother now, you don't have to…" Finn groans, and despite himself Kurt winces as that hand returns to that bloody hair.

"Alright, alright!" Kurt snaps, reaching back up and smoothing the collar properly. When he's done, he makes to step away; but Finn grabs him before he can, and Kurt finds his face buried in Finn's shirt in what he thinks might be a hug.

Which is nice in theory – last time Finn hugged him was their parents’ wedding – but Finn's height (how on _earth_ does Rachel manage?) makes it rather hard to breathe, so after a moment of near-suffocation Kurt's relieved to feel Finn's grip loosen slightly.

“You’re the best baby stepbrother ever,” Finn proclaims over the top of Kurt’s head.

“I’m older than you,” Kurt points out, but without much heat.  He even lets Finn hold him for a bit more before gingerly attempting to untangle himself from the taller boy. When Kurt tries to move backwards, though Finn stops him – this time by grabbing both his arms, firmly but gently.

Kurt frowns upwards (again, no mean feat, considering his height. Sometimes, Kurt finds himself on the verge of asking Rachel how their relationship actually  _works_.) "What's wrong?"

Finn looks away, and without looking down Kurt can tell that he's shifting his weight from side to side. "...you…happy…" he mumbles.

" _Pardon_?"

"…Ijustwantyoutobehappy."

Kurt sighs, because he knows Finn does want that. But he's also known, since from the moment he realised that he much preferred talking about boys with Brittany than about girls with…well, whichever boy was around…that 'happiness' for him wouldn't work the same way as it does for other people.

He wants to explain that to Finn, that and the convoluted mix of fear and amazement and  _hope_ he felt when he first heard about this northern Prince. But he can't, and so he's relieved when he hears someone call out to him.

"Your Highness!" It's Mike –  _Michael_ , really, but that's another name reserved for awkward usage in court. "Lord Finn," he acknowledges with a brief nod to Finn. "They're almost here, Mr Schue sent a message from the gates."

Kurt bites his lip. "Thanks, Mike," and the captain nods, leaving them alone once more.

 _Mr Schue_. It was Brittany's idea when they were young, studying together under Lord William's tutorship, and yet the name's stuck. Even now when they're in court, Kurt has to resist the urge to call him by the affectionate title. 'Lord William of House Schuester' just doesn't roll off  _anyone's_ tongue…

"Uh, Kurt?"

Kurt looks up, trying to meet Finn's eyes. "What, Finn?"

"You're doing the, you know, the 'I'm pretending to think about things of great significance so that Finn'll leave me alone but I'm actually just mind-word-vomiting' thing," Finn says, complete with obscure hand gestures that could mean everything and nothing. Kurt's impressed despite himself, because he didn't know Finn knew the word 'significance', till his step-brother adds, "that's what Rachel always says you're doing, anyway."

Of  _course_. "And I was actually thinking you'd come up with that all by yourself. Silly me," Kurt retorts, rolling his eyes, but Rachel runs up at that point, so Finn doesn't get the chance at a more eloquent protest than " _Hey!_ "

Not that he probably would have. Finn's verbal clumsiness can be charming – Kurt winces, as he always does now, at the reminder of just  _how_ charming he found it, barely a year ago – but it doesn't lend itself to prolonged conversation, unless said prolonged conversation involves pillows and friendly punches.

Kurt's sort of aware that he's doing the word-vomit thing again, but that parasite-mutant-fungus thing is back in his stomach.

 _Are they here yet?_ he wants to ask, but that would be undignified.

And so Kurt stands there, letting Rachel's chatter wash over him as the wind billows lightly through his thick cloak.

And he waits.

* * *

 

" _What the_ fuck _, Gabriel?"_

_Gabriel doesn't even look up at Blaine, his gaze not moving from the page that Blaine's pretty sure he's not even reading. "Manners, Blaine. I am your King," and though Blaine didn't realise it was even possible, he thinks he might hate his brother just a little bit more._

" _What on earth are you thinking, your_ Majesty _?" Blaine says, sarcasm dripping from every word. "You know that Father wouldn't stand for th-"_

 _His brother finally glances up, and if not for his anger Blaine might have recoiled at the indifference and faint disgust in Gabriel's eyes. "Yes, well," he drawls, "Father is dead. And I am your King." Gabriel pushes himself to his feet, rounding the desk, and Blaine takes an unconscious step back. "And you_ will  _do the one useful thing you will ever be able to do for your country, and you will. Not._  Complain _."_

" _Bu-But" Blaine can hear the weakness in his voice and hates himself for it, "you can't just peddle me off li-like a_ horse _!"_

 _Gabriel shrugs. "It wasn't my idea, I can tell you that. If you want to blame somebody, blame those meddling_ friends _" he sneers the word 'friends' as though he can't quite believe Blaine has any, "of yours."_

 _Blaine_ has  _blamed them, though he doesn't tell Gabriel that. And though their explanations and excuses haven't made him forgive them yet, they've only made him wish even more that his brother had been the one to die in that battle, and not his father._

_"Besides," Gabriel adds, "who else are you going to marry, Blaine? You should be grateful I'm even allowing you to indulge your little…perversion."_

_Blaine bites his lip till it bleeds, the copper tang bitter in his mouth, and heads towards the door, desperate to leave before he completely loses his temper. He's just left the room when he hears his brother's voice._

" _Oh…and Blaine?"_

_He turns back just as Gabriel's hand swings back, and he can't move quickly enough to avoid the brutal blow to his cheek. As his hand flies to his face in shock, Gabriel's other hand curls into a fist._

_Blaine collapses to the floor, coughing heavily; but the blows don't stop, though Gabriel has stepped back. Instead, it's the air itself that's beating him, piercing through his clothing as if it's not there and he's being whipped like a common criminal._

_After what seems like an eternity, the faint hum of magic silences, and Gabriel kneels before him, grabbing his chin gently in a mockery of brotherly affection._

" _Never speak back to me again."_

" _Sans'aera_ , your Highness."

Blaine blinks. "Huh?" Beside him, Santana brings her hand to her face, and without looking he knows she's got the 'why do I know him?' expression that she somehow never tires of using around him.

"We're  _here_ , you idiot," she growls between gritted teeth. With a start, Blaine realises that the horses have stopped moving, and that they're in a large courtyard, his guards and other, unfamiliar, people milling around on grey-white stone that appears to be the only building material here.

 _Sans'aera_. The word translates infuriatingly in his head. For a split second, it's unintelligible till the icy winds blow away the last vestiges of his sleepy haze, and he remembers that, though Althaeri is spoken in the south, the dialect and ceremonial language can sometimes form a whole other tongue.

Almost unconsciously, his hands reach instinctively to clutch the pot balanced precariously before him on the front of his saddle. Clambering stumblingly, haltingly, off his horse as frozen muscles refuse to respond, Blaine slips on the snow, falling with a loud  _thud!_ to the ground.

_Sans'aera. Welcome._

" _Shit_ ," he curses, sitting up quickly and looking around him in panic, because Santana is going to  _kill_ him if that pot breaks…

"It's alright, I've got it." For a moment, he thinks that voice, high and musical, belongs to the short girl he'd caught a glimpse of when he was looking around the courtyard.

"Finn, can you take this?" Blaine hears a mumbled something, and he looks up…

"Hey, are you okay?"

…into the most beautiful eyes he's ever seen in his life.

"…Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

As Mr. Beautiful-eyes reaches out a hand to help Blaine up, he can't help but feel the slightest twinge of hope that maybe, somehow, everything will sort of work out.

* * *

 

King Gabriel had sent Kurt paintings of his younger brother, and once even a mage to reproduce his likeness.

And sure, Kurt's heart had beat a little faster because, hey, he might have liked what he saw; but he never forgot to remind himself that an attractive body didn't necessarily mean a beautiful soul and even beautiful souls could be boring as shit.

But  _dear Goddess he's gorgeous!_

As Prince Blaine of House Anderson stands, Kurt realises with a jolt of surprise and slight amusement that, for once, he's actually taller. But where Kurt's long and slender and maybe a bit more feminine in shape than he'd like, Prince Blaine gives off the appearance of being tall and muscled while only actually reaching up to around Kurt's eyebrows.

"Your Majesty?"

 _I'm staring. Shit_.

Kurt scrabbles frantically for something to say, but the best he can come out with is "it's 'Your Highness', actually. I'm only Prince Regent right now, till I turn 18. Which is sort of stupid and doesn't really make sense, because I swear that should mean that I'm safeguarding the throne for someone else but I'm not really, but there's really no one to safeguard it for me except Finn and he doesn't really count any…" He trails off, because Prince Blaine is looking at him strangely.

_And now I'm babbling. Again._

Kurt takes a deep breath.

"What I  _meant_ to say," he says, praying that some miracle will occur and the last thirty seconds of his life will be wiped from his memory, "is  _sans'aera_. To the Low Lands."

**Author's Note:**

> TBC


End file.
